Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 41
August 5, 2019
Uncomfortable Topics
***UNCOMFORTABLE TOPICS***
Every once and a while during your creative journey, the inspirational well will run dry. It happens to the best of us. You get done with one project or you’re waiting on the results of another. And then boom, you’ve exhausted the creative well. Ever since I finished the new version of Beautiful Monster back in…I want to say June or July, I’ve been writing short stories that are hopefully different from all the rest I’ve written. And then just last week, I declare that I’m getting back into writing fantasy with the short story “3:16”, which I’m convinced has been a complete failure due to its hokey nature, vanilla characters, and silly antics. I’m back to square one as a man without a country, so to speak.
And that got me thinking about a piece of advice that budding authors frequently receive: “Write about things that make you uncomfortable.” It’ll make for some raw material and it’ll get you out of your creative rut. You’ll have new stories and your audience will believe that much more in them. Everybody wins! This whole time I’ve been afraid of making myself cringe by the mature content my stories have. And then I remembered: Beautiful Monster is about rape. Rape is the most uncomfortable topic there is. I’m already halfway there! Now I need a new story with a different uncomfortable topic. I’ve come up with nine different topics that make me squeamish whenever I see news stories about them on TV.
***ANIMAL CRUELTY***
Forget the fact that animals are cute and cuddly. Even if you disagree with that sentiment, animals are still defenseless in the hands of abusive or neglectful owners. Every beating a small kitten receives. Every pit bull who’s chained outside all day long in unbearable weather. Every circus elephant who yearns for freedom after being confined for so long in a cage. This shit hurts me on a deep level. I have animals of my own and if I found out somebody was abusing them, I’d beat the living shit out of said abusers and take my jail sentence gracefully. Animals should be comfortable and cozy, not fearful and traumatized. Two years is the maximum prison sentence for animal abusers. It should be higher. I’d also dare say that like sex offenders, animal abusers should be put on a multi-tiered registry. I love my fur babies. I love everyone else’s fur babies too. I donate to the ASPCA every month and I take care of the fur babies I have.
***CHILD KIDNAPPING***
I may not want children of my own. I may not be overjoyed whenever I have to sit next to a noisy child on an airplane or a bus. Having said that, it still horrifies me whenever I see a news story about a child being kidnapped by a pedophile and held hostage for decades at a time. Jaycee Dugard is a major example of this. She was kidnapped at age eleven and set free at age twenty-nine. Jesus fucking Christ! What about Ariel Castro’s three victims? For ten years he held them hostage and raped them. Ten fucking years! Keep in mind that this trauma is happening during their most developmental years. Even if they were adults when they were kidnapped, that kind of brutality can drive a person insane. There’s a special place in hell for people who kidnap and have sex with children.
***CLASSISM***
Every once and a while, a viral video will pop up of some asshole republican chewing out a poor customer at a store for using a food stamp or welfare card. You also see classism on dating sites, where profiles demand that their dates have a bazillion dollars and sports cars up to yin-yang. Poor people get labeled as being “lazy” or “leeches”, to which I say is complete and utter bullshit. You don’t know what that welfare recipient is going through. You don’t know what the broke college student will do for love. Classism is just like any other form of prejudice. And no, it’s not something that the individual has control over despite what the bashers will say. This economy was not designed to close wage gaps. It does marginalize the less fortunate.
***FAT SHAMING***
We live in a world where unrealistic beauty standards are squeezing the life out of everyday people who don’t have sculpted bodies or skinny frames. The body positivity movement is not about celebrating unhealthiness. It’s about celebrating absolution. In other words, we don’t have to feel guilty about our bodies just because some muscle head says we should. I’ve said this before: people who fat shame are secretly pissed about having a shortage of people they can jack off to. Yep. That’s your reward for losing weight: more people will jack off to you…unless of course you’re below the poverty line.
***MENTAL HOSPITALS***
If Terminator 2: Judgment Day has taught me anything, it’s that mental hospitals are nothing more than prisons for sad people. They operate like prisons, they make money like prisons, and the guards/orderlies beat their inmates like prisoners. You have no rights once you’re in a mental hospital and you can’t leave whenever you bloody well feel like it. That’s the dictionary definition of a prison. Most of the people in these facilities didn’t even commit crimes. They’re just locked up and treated like animals over something they have no control over: their own mental illnesses. As someone with schizophrenia, this pisses me off to no end.
***MILLENNIAL BASHING***
Bill Maher once said on an episode of Real Time that ageism was the last acceptable prejudice we have…and then during the same rant talked shit about millennials like the hypocrite he is. Bill Maher is a crabby old man, so that’s to be expected. Millennials bashing their own generation is even worse, however. That’s Candace Owens levels of selling out. Why all of this hatred for people born in the 80’s and 90’s? What did we do that was so wrong? Nothing. These stereotypes against us are just that: stereotypes. We all come in different flavors, your mileage may vary. More people need to call out millennial bashers until it’s recognized as the blind bigotry it is.
***POLICE BRUTALITY***
Whenever an ordinary civilian commits a crime, he goes to jail and serves his time. Whenever a police officer does something even worse (“hold my beer”), he gets administrative leave, which is really just a paid vacation. Cops are revered by society as being these superheroes who can do no wrong, and yet they continually get away with murdering, beating, or otherwise harassing minorities. This gross imbalance of power pisses me the fuck off, especially because there’s not a whole lot I can do about it short of spreading awareness on the internet. Even then, these cops continue to murder their own citizens for absolutely no reason.
***STEM SUPREMACY***
Whenever an artist rightfully complains about his stagnant or nonexistent wages, the first thing some asshole tells him is to get a tech job or go to trade school. Blind conformity equals good pay. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather make little money and be able to create whatever art I wanted than get paid a gazillion dollars to be a mediocre husk of my former self. Then again, if I did go to trade school or get a STEM degree, I’d be able to close the wage gap long enough to get a date on classist websites. But then I’d have to lose a bunch of weight or else nobody will jack off to me. Hmm…it’s a catch-22 if I’ve ever seen one.
***TRANSPHOBIA***
Turns out ageism isn’t the last acceptable prejudice after all. It’s transphobia. People are so scared of transgender people using public bathrooms for fear of their children getting molested, yet they’re perfectly okay with a rapist president sitting in the white house and a rapist sitting on the supreme court bench. Transgender people deserve to be treated with respect. So do non-binary people. And gender fluid people. They’re human beings, just like you and me. Why is that so difficult to see? And don’t give me that shit about Fallon Fox having an unfair advantage in MMA when you’re more than willing to condone steroid abusers.
***CONCLUSION***
Yes, these topics are pretty appalling. In fact, I’d say they’re beyond appalling. They’re uncomfortable as hell. So what kinds of stories could I write about these topics? Well, just last night, I came up with a novel synopsis for a story called “Fat Camp”. It’s not officially my next project yet, but if I develop it, it could be.
MAIN CHARACTERS:
1. Adrian Evans, Fat Camp Student
2. Rufus Lynch, Sadistic Camp Counselor
3. Stella Masters, Sadistic Camp Counselor
4. Tiffany Crowder, Fat Camp Student
5. Nameless Students and Counselors
SYNOPSIS: As part of a new initiative to combat teen obesity, students like Adrian and Tiffany are sent to a fat camp with a penchant for tough love and military discipline. Every time the students rebel against their harsh treatment, counselors like Rufus and Stella get violent with their punishments, such as cutting off flesh, breaking limbs, and Rufus’s personal favorite method of torture, twisting faces with pliers. The combination of extreme fat shaming and physical torture would lead the students to believe that none of this is legal, but when they try to contact a lawyer or the police for help, their pleas fall on deaf ears and the beatings intensify. Can Adrian and Tiffany survive this hellhole and graduate with their rights intact? Not without bruises and emotional trauma, they won’t.
Prepare to cringe. Prepare to cringe hard!
***QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Mental illness may be a life sentence for some of us, but it does not have to be a death sentence.”
-Mauro Ranallo a.k.a. The Bipolar Rock n’ Roller-
Every once and a while during your creative journey, the inspirational well will run dry. It happens to the best of us. You get done with one project or you’re waiting on the results of another. And then boom, you’ve exhausted the creative well. Ever since I finished the new version of Beautiful Monster back in…I want to say June or July, I’ve been writing short stories that are hopefully different from all the rest I’ve written. And then just last week, I declare that I’m getting back into writing fantasy with the short story “3:16”, which I’m convinced has been a complete failure due to its hokey nature, vanilla characters, and silly antics. I’m back to square one as a man without a country, so to speak.
And that got me thinking about a piece of advice that budding authors frequently receive: “Write about things that make you uncomfortable.” It’ll make for some raw material and it’ll get you out of your creative rut. You’ll have new stories and your audience will believe that much more in them. Everybody wins! This whole time I’ve been afraid of making myself cringe by the mature content my stories have. And then I remembered: Beautiful Monster is about rape. Rape is the most uncomfortable topic there is. I’m already halfway there! Now I need a new story with a different uncomfortable topic. I’ve come up with nine different topics that make me squeamish whenever I see news stories about them on TV.
***ANIMAL CRUELTY***
Forget the fact that animals are cute and cuddly. Even if you disagree with that sentiment, animals are still defenseless in the hands of abusive or neglectful owners. Every beating a small kitten receives. Every pit bull who’s chained outside all day long in unbearable weather. Every circus elephant who yearns for freedom after being confined for so long in a cage. This shit hurts me on a deep level. I have animals of my own and if I found out somebody was abusing them, I’d beat the living shit out of said abusers and take my jail sentence gracefully. Animals should be comfortable and cozy, not fearful and traumatized. Two years is the maximum prison sentence for animal abusers. It should be higher. I’d also dare say that like sex offenders, animal abusers should be put on a multi-tiered registry. I love my fur babies. I love everyone else’s fur babies too. I donate to the ASPCA every month and I take care of the fur babies I have.
***CHILD KIDNAPPING***
I may not want children of my own. I may not be overjoyed whenever I have to sit next to a noisy child on an airplane or a bus. Having said that, it still horrifies me whenever I see a news story about a child being kidnapped by a pedophile and held hostage for decades at a time. Jaycee Dugard is a major example of this. She was kidnapped at age eleven and set free at age twenty-nine. Jesus fucking Christ! What about Ariel Castro’s three victims? For ten years he held them hostage and raped them. Ten fucking years! Keep in mind that this trauma is happening during their most developmental years. Even if they were adults when they were kidnapped, that kind of brutality can drive a person insane. There’s a special place in hell for people who kidnap and have sex with children.
***CLASSISM***
Every once and a while, a viral video will pop up of some asshole republican chewing out a poor customer at a store for using a food stamp or welfare card. You also see classism on dating sites, where profiles demand that their dates have a bazillion dollars and sports cars up to yin-yang. Poor people get labeled as being “lazy” or “leeches”, to which I say is complete and utter bullshit. You don’t know what that welfare recipient is going through. You don’t know what the broke college student will do for love. Classism is just like any other form of prejudice. And no, it’s not something that the individual has control over despite what the bashers will say. This economy was not designed to close wage gaps. It does marginalize the less fortunate.
***FAT SHAMING***
We live in a world where unrealistic beauty standards are squeezing the life out of everyday people who don’t have sculpted bodies or skinny frames. The body positivity movement is not about celebrating unhealthiness. It’s about celebrating absolution. In other words, we don’t have to feel guilty about our bodies just because some muscle head says we should. I’ve said this before: people who fat shame are secretly pissed about having a shortage of people they can jack off to. Yep. That’s your reward for losing weight: more people will jack off to you…unless of course you’re below the poverty line.
***MENTAL HOSPITALS***
If Terminator 2: Judgment Day has taught me anything, it’s that mental hospitals are nothing more than prisons for sad people. They operate like prisons, they make money like prisons, and the guards/orderlies beat their inmates like prisoners. You have no rights once you’re in a mental hospital and you can’t leave whenever you bloody well feel like it. That’s the dictionary definition of a prison. Most of the people in these facilities didn’t even commit crimes. They’re just locked up and treated like animals over something they have no control over: their own mental illnesses. As someone with schizophrenia, this pisses me off to no end.
***MILLENNIAL BASHING***
Bill Maher once said on an episode of Real Time that ageism was the last acceptable prejudice we have…and then during the same rant talked shit about millennials like the hypocrite he is. Bill Maher is a crabby old man, so that’s to be expected. Millennials bashing their own generation is even worse, however. That’s Candace Owens levels of selling out. Why all of this hatred for people born in the 80’s and 90’s? What did we do that was so wrong? Nothing. These stereotypes against us are just that: stereotypes. We all come in different flavors, your mileage may vary. More people need to call out millennial bashers until it’s recognized as the blind bigotry it is.
***POLICE BRUTALITY***
Whenever an ordinary civilian commits a crime, he goes to jail and serves his time. Whenever a police officer does something even worse (“hold my beer”), he gets administrative leave, which is really just a paid vacation. Cops are revered by society as being these superheroes who can do no wrong, and yet they continually get away with murdering, beating, or otherwise harassing minorities. This gross imbalance of power pisses me the fuck off, especially because there’s not a whole lot I can do about it short of spreading awareness on the internet. Even then, these cops continue to murder their own citizens for absolutely no reason.
***STEM SUPREMACY***
Whenever an artist rightfully complains about his stagnant or nonexistent wages, the first thing some asshole tells him is to get a tech job or go to trade school. Blind conformity equals good pay. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d rather make little money and be able to create whatever art I wanted than get paid a gazillion dollars to be a mediocre husk of my former self. Then again, if I did go to trade school or get a STEM degree, I’d be able to close the wage gap long enough to get a date on classist websites. But then I’d have to lose a bunch of weight or else nobody will jack off to me. Hmm…it’s a catch-22 if I’ve ever seen one.
***TRANSPHOBIA***
Turns out ageism isn’t the last acceptable prejudice after all. It’s transphobia. People are so scared of transgender people using public bathrooms for fear of their children getting molested, yet they’re perfectly okay with a rapist president sitting in the white house and a rapist sitting on the supreme court bench. Transgender people deserve to be treated with respect. So do non-binary people. And gender fluid people. They’re human beings, just like you and me. Why is that so difficult to see? And don’t give me that shit about Fallon Fox having an unfair advantage in MMA when you’re more than willing to condone steroid abusers.
***CONCLUSION***
Yes, these topics are pretty appalling. In fact, I’d say they’re beyond appalling. They’re uncomfortable as hell. So what kinds of stories could I write about these topics? Well, just last night, I came up with a novel synopsis for a story called “Fat Camp”. It’s not officially my next project yet, but if I develop it, it could be.
MAIN CHARACTERS:
1. Adrian Evans, Fat Camp Student
2. Rufus Lynch, Sadistic Camp Counselor
3. Stella Masters, Sadistic Camp Counselor
4. Tiffany Crowder, Fat Camp Student
5. Nameless Students and Counselors
SYNOPSIS: As part of a new initiative to combat teen obesity, students like Adrian and Tiffany are sent to a fat camp with a penchant for tough love and military discipline. Every time the students rebel against their harsh treatment, counselors like Rufus and Stella get violent with their punishments, such as cutting off flesh, breaking limbs, and Rufus’s personal favorite method of torture, twisting faces with pliers. The combination of extreme fat shaming and physical torture would lead the students to believe that none of this is legal, but when they try to contact a lawyer or the police for help, their pleas fall on deaf ears and the beatings intensify. Can Adrian and Tiffany survive this hellhole and graduate with their rights intact? Not without bruises and emotional trauma, they won’t.
Prepare to cringe. Prepare to cringe hard!
***QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Mental illness may be a life sentence for some of us, but it does not have to be a death sentence.”
-Mauro Ranallo a.k.a. The Bipolar Rock n’ Roller-
Punished For Nothing
VERSE 1
The rift between crime and punishment
Is the rift between democracy and government
A slap on the wrist for a child rapist
A lifetime in prison for the drugs taken
Beaten and tortured for freedom of speech
What lessons are we supposed to teach?
That you’re fucked no matter what?
Unless you’ve got over a billion bucks?
CHORUS
Punished for nothing! X4
VERSE 2
Protesting peacefully in a crowded street
Pepper spray burns like hellfire heat
Bones broken by a pair of booted feet
A life sentence for daring to question
The authority that screwed you over
No punishment for the country’s owners
Administrative leave for those who smash
The skulls of innocents who’re treated like trash
CHORUS
Punished for nothing! X4
VERSE 3
White man, black man, what’s the difference?
One is automatically declared innocent
The other is treated like he’s second class
Yet we refuse to acknowledge the racist past
Calling the cops for doing mundane tasks
Sparing those who kiss the authority’s ass
One nation under fraud, justice for none
It’s all just a joke to you, all in good fun
CHORUS
Punished for nothing! X4
FINAL VERSE
They always tell us to not break the law
But even innocents can have a broken jaw
Even a jaywalker can eat a fucking bullet
The American Dream has been stolen
The rift between crime and punishment
Is the rift between democracy and government
A slap on the wrist for a child rapist
A lifetime in prison for the drugs taken
Beaten and tortured for freedom of speech
What lessons are we supposed to teach?
That you’re fucked no matter what?
Unless you’ve got over a billion bucks?
CHORUS
Punished for nothing! X4
VERSE 2
Protesting peacefully in a crowded street
Pepper spray burns like hellfire heat
Bones broken by a pair of booted feet
A life sentence for daring to question
The authority that screwed you over
No punishment for the country’s owners
Administrative leave for those who smash
The skulls of innocents who’re treated like trash
CHORUS
Punished for nothing! X4
VERSE 3
White man, black man, what’s the difference?
One is automatically declared innocent
The other is treated like he’s second class
Yet we refuse to acknowledge the racist past
Calling the cops for doing mundane tasks
Sparing those who kiss the authority’s ass
One nation under fraud, justice for none
It’s all just a joke to you, all in good fun
CHORUS
Punished for nothing! X4
FINAL VERSE
They always tell us to not break the law
But even innocents can have a broken jaw
Even a jaywalker can eat a fucking bullet
The American Dream has been stolen
July 31, 2019
Crawl and Brawl
CHORUS
Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches
Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches
Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six
Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!
VERSE 1
A super-kick party’s got nothing on this
Ten thousand uppercuts, death match bliss
Taking razor wire and wrapping those fists
Someone’s getting killed, somebody’s pissed
Steel cage couldn’t contain all the bloodshed
A prison riot? We ain’t fucking done yet
Every last dumb shit is waiting to get beaten
Every last dead body is waiting to get eaten
CHORUS
Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches
Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches
Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six
Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!
VERSE 2
A Florida gator will feast on all the haters
A Burmese tiger will bring the fucking fire
An African rhino will gore you in the gut
Trample your ass into the bubbling mud
You picked the wrong fight for tonight
The holy preacher will speak your last rites
The undertaker will take you to your maker
Crawl and brawl until you all fucking fall
CHORUS
Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches
Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches
Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six
Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!
VERSE 3
A golden belt means less than a human pelt
A gold medal will not bring the heavy metal
A trophy cup will not make them shut up
Snuggle with severed heads when going to bed
A bloody dream will make your genitals cream
In the real world, they scream like little girls
Only a true warrior can make the world cry
As they watch their heavyweight champions die
FINAL LINES
Crawl and brawl! X4
Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches
Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches
Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six
Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!
VERSE 1
A super-kick party’s got nothing on this
Ten thousand uppercuts, death match bliss
Taking razor wire and wrapping those fists
Someone’s getting killed, somebody’s pissed
Steel cage couldn’t contain all the bloodshed
A prison riot? We ain’t fucking done yet
Every last dumb shit is waiting to get beaten
Every last dead body is waiting to get eaten
CHORUS
Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches
Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches
Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six
Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!
VERSE 2
A Florida gator will feast on all the haters
A Burmese tiger will bring the fucking fire
An African rhino will gore you in the gut
Trample your ass into the bubbling mud
You picked the wrong fight for tonight
The holy preacher will speak your last rites
The undertaker will take you to your maker
Crawl and brawl until you all fucking fall
CHORUS
Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches
Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches
Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six
Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!
VERSE 3
A golden belt means less than a human pelt
A gold medal will not bring the heavy metal
A trophy cup will not make them shut up
Snuggle with severed heads when going to bed
A bloody dream will make your genitals cream
In the real world, they scream like little girls
Only a true warrior can make the world cry
As they watch their heavyweight champions die
FINAL LINES
Crawl and brawl! X4
July 29, 2019
3:16
The Death Marshal watched over the Black Widow Amphitheater with an omniscient presence, smiling a razor-toothed smile from the hells below. This afternoon Marilyn Manson concert ran as smoothly as venom through a cobra’s victim. The band was onstage bouncing around to the tune of “Irresponsible Hate Anthem”.
The concertgoers below the stage shoved and slammed into each other in a circle pit that could knock over the heaviest of hitters. The scent of alcohol was seductive to Death Marshal’s nostrils. One lady in the pit removed her Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and threw it to the ground in a heavy metal rage. The energy in this outdoor arena lit the Death Marshal’s soul on fire. The god was pleased.
But of course, nothing could be perfect forever. One bad apple always had to ruin the entire bunch. Outside the cemetery-like gates of the spider-shaped arena stood a red-dressed, purple-haired woman with a crucifix around her neck and a sign in her hand that read, “You Must Be Born Again!” She shouted at Manson fans passing through the gates in a shrieking voice that could sell her own metal albums if she so chose. They either ignored her or flipped her the bird on their way in.
“It’s not too late to save your souls!” the woman belted, pointing an elongated fingernail at passersby. “Leave this place and come to church with me! We can go to heaven together! We can experience Jesus’s love for all eternity! You don’t have to burn in hell! Let us pray together! Let’s fight the devil and push his wicked energy out of our souls! We can be pure again! You must be reborn!”
The Death Marshal couldn’t possibly understand why this woman hated everything about this arena so much. Was it the tarantula-shaped structure with the eight legs acting as tunnels to the bleachers and pit? The event staff wearing black hooded robes and steel horns? The red and orange fogged lighting that illuminated the rows and stage? The white makeup and black clothing the concertgoers were proudly wearing? The LGBT flag that someone was waving at the back of the bleachers? The gargoyle statues? The blood-soaked walls? The skulls dangling from the ceiling? The bronze statue of Death Marshal taking up the middle of the seating area?
The screaming continued despite the many middle fingers the zealot received. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your backs on Jesus Christ! He has sent me to punish you all for your sins! This is devil music and it must be stopped! And I am the only one who has the power to stop it! Remember the name of JoJo Tornado, your new savior and hero!”
The passersby suddenly erupted in a fit of laughter. Death Marshal couldn’t help but crack a smile and hee-haw like a demon either. All of this fanatical rhetoric, all of these mystical threats were coming from a woman named…JoJo Tornado. Many fans asked her if that was actually the name her mother gave her. Were the Tornados an extended family? Did it actually say JoJo Tornado on her driver’s license? Could she even drive without getting a DUI charge after drinking the blood of Christ? Concertgoers slapped their knees and buckled over as these thoughts circulated among them. For once, JoJo managed to be more entertaining than the concert itself, no offense to Marilyn Manson.
And then the bright sunny day turned gray and cold as soon as JoJo’s face scrunched up in anger and she threw her sign to the ground. Concertgoers who wore jorts and T-shirts to the show found themselves shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. Icy winds picked up all around the arena, so much so that the band stopped playing and looked confused. JoJo’s eyes rolled back in her head while she waved her arms around in some kind of magical dance, guiding the wind wherever she wanted it.
Hooded bouncers circled around her to try and stop this display, but the wind grew strong enough to shove them all back against the spider-legged arena tunnels. The screams of heavy metal energy turned to screams of childish terror when one of the bouncers was impaled on a stony spike, his spilling innards and shattered ribcage making this dark fantasy paradise look even more frightening.
Fans bolted for any exit they could find, resembling an animalistic stampede where concertgoers were either crushed underneath boots or picked up and slammed by the wind. Marilyn Manson and his group were long gone by then. Anybody who wanted to follow suit in their cars were shit out of luck as the wind picked up vehicles and smashed them into concertgoers and bouncers alike. The concessions stand, which looked like a stony apothecary’s hut, shattered into pebbles at the drop of an SUV, spraying a fountain of beer in the air.
Somewhere during this mad dash towards higher ground, somewhere in this sea of blood, guts, and bones, a stage prop was blown off its hinges and launched like a javelin through the heart of the Death Marshal statue, knocking it over and desecrating the one true guardian of this sacred arena.
Suddenly, the dashing stopped. Horrified looks turned to pity and rage. Concertgoers and bouncers stood still in awe of the act of blasphemy committed against the Death Marshal statue. Marilyn Manson and his band returned to the stage and glared daggers at JoJo Tornado, who in turn looked muddled by this lack of chaos she worked so hard to create. “Does this mean…you all are ready to repent? Will you come with me to the gates of heaven?” She held out her hand in a loving gesture, but nobody would take it.
They were too busy staring at the green smoke that erupted from the hole where Death Marshal’s statue used to be. The statue was supposed to be a seal for the guardian beast. It was supposed to be his sleeping grounds. The god of the arena was supposed to be a mere spectator. But he was wide awake now. A slimy brown hand gripped the ledge of the hole and then another hand followed suit. With one growling jerk, Death Marshal pulled himself out of the pit for all of his followers to see.
There he was. A giant among men. A slime-and-dirt-covered creature wrapped in mummy bandages. A foul-smelling demon whose odor would be enough of a reason to seal him away in the first place. No lips have touched his face. No eyes wanted these permanent stains. No hands wanted his corrosive feel. He looked like the devil himself and it was a label he embraced to the fullest.
“So…this is what Satan looks like,” said JoJo, determined as ever to keep the chaos going. “This is what dark seduction feels like. You all worship this false idol? You dare use the lord’s name in vain for this prophet? Then I know how what I must do. I must exorcise this beast once and for all!”
Death Marshal’s murky boots slapped against the stone ground as he rushed towards JoJo with his arms outstretched, like he wanted to wrap his mile-long digits around her pencil neck. But the wind held him in place. The dark clouds opened up and unleashed another gust of holy energy. Death Marshal threw punches and braced himself against the aeromancy, but it was no use. Even a creature with his godly strength succumbed to getting bounced off the edge of the stage and nearly knocked unconscious. His omnipresent vision faded in and out of blackness. He really was about to meet God, albeit in a puddle of his own necromantic sludge.
“Is that all you’ve got?” asked JoJo. “Is this finally proof that God’s will conquers all? Ha! Too easy!”
Pain shot through Death Marshal’s nearly cracked spine as he crawled across the ground, dragging pieces of sloppy flesh and chipped bones across the stony surface. He reached out for something. What was it? A fan’s ankle? An angel’s hand? The devil’s weapons? No. It was the Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt the female fan threw on the ground earlier. That fan now had an SUV crushing her bones, but her spirit lived on…as did the spirit of the Texas Rattlesnake himself. A demonic mouth opened up in Death Marshal’s palm and it consumed the woman’s T-shirt, both making JoJo shiver in disgust and the concertgoers and bouncers watch in awe and wonder.
With bones creaking and mummy wrapping tearing, Death Marshal staggered to his feet and gazed at his surroundings with blurry vision. And then he remembered why his vision was so blurry. Not because of the force of the wind slamming him against the stage. But because…he was drunk. The Budweiser flowing through his veins ignited his soul. The fans in attendance suddenly believed in their hero again with chants of “Austin! Austin! Austin! Austin!”
And then, with a stomp of his foot and a thrash of his arms, Death Marshal shouted in a familiar southern accent, “Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass!” The fans cheered their heads off and the band couldn’t help but smile a little bit.
JoJo Tornado scowled at her opponent and said, “Such fowl language will not be tolerated in the house of the lord! Take THAT!” She blew a gust of wind at Death Marshal and sent him flying over to the shattered beer stand. But instead of cracking his skull against the ground, he grabbed onto the beer hose and started drinking out of it like he was dying of thirst in a desert country.
After releasing a toxic burp that contributed to global warming, Death Marshal aimed the hose at JoJo and splashed her with a stream of beer. She was knocked over on her ass and scrambled to get back up, but couldn’t. The beer spray was too powerful for her, not unlike her wind magic. She even rolled backwards several feet and got some of it in her mouth. The beer stream couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t matter anymore. JoJo was soaked head to toe in alcohol. Her dress nearly fell off several times. And everyone cheered all around her.
Death Marshal stomped over to his drunken opponent, the fans parting like the Red Sea. JoJo struggled to stay on her feet despite nothing spraying her anymore. She burped, slurred her words, and actually made more sense than when she was picketing outside the gates. In that familiar southern accent, the mummy guardian said, “Don’t take this ass-whopping personally, son!” Two middle fingers later, he kicked her in the stomach and smashed her jaw over his shoulders as he dropped on his ass, or as the WWE would call it, a Stone Cold Stunner.
As fans cheered and roared all around him, Death Marshal held two middle fingers to the sky and rattled his head like the badass he was. Some of the crowd threw him cans of beer and he chugged them down within seconds, swimming in a sea of drunkenness. After another burp that rocked the arena, he said, “If you want to see me set this bitch on fire and send her straight to hell, give me a hell yeah!”
“HELL YEAH!” echoed the fans.
Death Marshal grabbed hold of JoJo’s ankle and dragged the dizzy and confused zealot back to the hole in the ground where he came from. The statue was busted. The magic was exposed. This venue probably wouldn’t make money again given the reckless nature of what happened today. But at least he could get all the sleep he wanted. As a final gesture of goodwill to their dark fantasy guardian, one of the fans slowly raised his hands in the air like another familiar WWE wrestler and threw them down on cue with flames bursting from the hole in the ground. In response, Death Marshal burped and threw the slime-covered T-shirt back up to the surface.
The magic was gone and soon everyone realized just how fucked up all of this was. Many fans and bouncers were still dead, vehicles were smashed every which way, stage and arena props were strewn all about. Not even the all mighty Death Marshal could bring them all back together. This sucked. This sucked badly. A heavy metal concert had turned into a day of trauma and death for those who just wanted a good time. Religious wars never did anybody any good. Two deities waged war and it was the public who paid the price. Marilyn Manson’s lyrics knew all about this phenomenon, oddly enough.
The concertgoers below the stage shoved and slammed into each other in a circle pit that could knock over the heaviest of hitters. The scent of alcohol was seductive to Death Marshal’s nostrils. One lady in the pit removed her Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and threw it to the ground in a heavy metal rage. The energy in this outdoor arena lit the Death Marshal’s soul on fire. The god was pleased.
But of course, nothing could be perfect forever. One bad apple always had to ruin the entire bunch. Outside the cemetery-like gates of the spider-shaped arena stood a red-dressed, purple-haired woman with a crucifix around her neck and a sign in her hand that read, “You Must Be Born Again!” She shouted at Manson fans passing through the gates in a shrieking voice that could sell her own metal albums if she so chose. They either ignored her or flipped her the bird on their way in.
“It’s not too late to save your souls!” the woman belted, pointing an elongated fingernail at passersby. “Leave this place and come to church with me! We can go to heaven together! We can experience Jesus’s love for all eternity! You don’t have to burn in hell! Let us pray together! Let’s fight the devil and push his wicked energy out of our souls! We can be pure again! You must be reborn!”
The Death Marshal couldn’t possibly understand why this woman hated everything about this arena so much. Was it the tarantula-shaped structure with the eight legs acting as tunnels to the bleachers and pit? The event staff wearing black hooded robes and steel horns? The red and orange fogged lighting that illuminated the rows and stage? The white makeup and black clothing the concertgoers were proudly wearing? The LGBT flag that someone was waving at the back of the bleachers? The gargoyle statues? The blood-soaked walls? The skulls dangling from the ceiling? The bronze statue of Death Marshal taking up the middle of the seating area?
The screaming continued despite the many middle fingers the zealot received. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your backs on Jesus Christ! He has sent me to punish you all for your sins! This is devil music and it must be stopped! And I am the only one who has the power to stop it! Remember the name of JoJo Tornado, your new savior and hero!”
The passersby suddenly erupted in a fit of laughter. Death Marshal couldn’t help but crack a smile and hee-haw like a demon either. All of this fanatical rhetoric, all of these mystical threats were coming from a woman named…JoJo Tornado. Many fans asked her if that was actually the name her mother gave her. Were the Tornados an extended family? Did it actually say JoJo Tornado on her driver’s license? Could she even drive without getting a DUI charge after drinking the blood of Christ? Concertgoers slapped their knees and buckled over as these thoughts circulated among them. For once, JoJo managed to be more entertaining than the concert itself, no offense to Marilyn Manson.
And then the bright sunny day turned gray and cold as soon as JoJo’s face scrunched up in anger and she threw her sign to the ground. Concertgoers who wore jorts and T-shirts to the show found themselves shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. Icy winds picked up all around the arena, so much so that the band stopped playing and looked confused. JoJo’s eyes rolled back in her head while she waved her arms around in some kind of magical dance, guiding the wind wherever she wanted it.
Hooded bouncers circled around her to try and stop this display, but the wind grew strong enough to shove them all back against the spider-legged arena tunnels. The screams of heavy metal energy turned to screams of childish terror when one of the bouncers was impaled on a stony spike, his spilling innards and shattered ribcage making this dark fantasy paradise look even more frightening.
Fans bolted for any exit they could find, resembling an animalistic stampede where concertgoers were either crushed underneath boots or picked up and slammed by the wind. Marilyn Manson and his group were long gone by then. Anybody who wanted to follow suit in their cars were shit out of luck as the wind picked up vehicles and smashed them into concertgoers and bouncers alike. The concessions stand, which looked like a stony apothecary’s hut, shattered into pebbles at the drop of an SUV, spraying a fountain of beer in the air.
Somewhere during this mad dash towards higher ground, somewhere in this sea of blood, guts, and bones, a stage prop was blown off its hinges and launched like a javelin through the heart of the Death Marshal statue, knocking it over and desecrating the one true guardian of this sacred arena.
Suddenly, the dashing stopped. Horrified looks turned to pity and rage. Concertgoers and bouncers stood still in awe of the act of blasphemy committed against the Death Marshal statue. Marilyn Manson and his band returned to the stage and glared daggers at JoJo Tornado, who in turn looked muddled by this lack of chaos she worked so hard to create. “Does this mean…you all are ready to repent? Will you come with me to the gates of heaven?” She held out her hand in a loving gesture, but nobody would take it.
They were too busy staring at the green smoke that erupted from the hole where Death Marshal’s statue used to be. The statue was supposed to be a seal for the guardian beast. It was supposed to be his sleeping grounds. The god of the arena was supposed to be a mere spectator. But he was wide awake now. A slimy brown hand gripped the ledge of the hole and then another hand followed suit. With one growling jerk, Death Marshal pulled himself out of the pit for all of his followers to see.
There he was. A giant among men. A slime-and-dirt-covered creature wrapped in mummy bandages. A foul-smelling demon whose odor would be enough of a reason to seal him away in the first place. No lips have touched his face. No eyes wanted these permanent stains. No hands wanted his corrosive feel. He looked like the devil himself and it was a label he embraced to the fullest.
“So…this is what Satan looks like,” said JoJo, determined as ever to keep the chaos going. “This is what dark seduction feels like. You all worship this false idol? You dare use the lord’s name in vain for this prophet? Then I know how what I must do. I must exorcise this beast once and for all!”
Death Marshal’s murky boots slapped against the stone ground as he rushed towards JoJo with his arms outstretched, like he wanted to wrap his mile-long digits around her pencil neck. But the wind held him in place. The dark clouds opened up and unleashed another gust of holy energy. Death Marshal threw punches and braced himself against the aeromancy, but it was no use. Even a creature with his godly strength succumbed to getting bounced off the edge of the stage and nearly knocked unconscious. His omnipresent vision faded in and out of blackness. He really was about to meet God, albeit in a puddle of his own necromantic sludge.
“Is that all you’ve got?” asked JoJo. “Is this finally proof that God’s will conquers all? Ha! Too easy!”
Pain shot through Death Marshal’s nearly cracked spine as he crawled across the ground, dragging pieces of sloppy flesh and chipped bones across the stony surface. He reached out for something. What was it? A fan’s ankle? An angel’s hand? The devil’s weapons? No. It was the Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt the female fan threw on the ground earlier. That fan now had an SUV crushing her bones, but her spirit lived on…as did the spirit of the Texas Rattlesnake himself. A demonic mouth opened up in Death Marshal’s palm and it consumed the woman’s T-shirt, both making JoJo shiver in disgust and the concertgoers and bouncers watch in awe and wonder.
With bones creaking and mummy wrapping tearing, Death Marshal staggered to his feet and gazed at his surroundings with blurry vision. And then he remembered why his vision was so blurry. Not because of the force of the wind slamming him against the stage. But because…he was drunk. The Budweiser flowing through his veins ignited his soul. The fans in attendance suddenly believed in their hero again with chants of “Austin! Austin! Austin! Austin!”
And then, with a stomp of his foot and a thrash of his arms, Death Marshal shouted in a familiar southern accent, “Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass!” The fans cheered their heads off and the band couldn’t help but smile a little bit.
JoJo Tornado scowled at her opponent and said, “Such fowl language will not be tolerated in the house of the lord! Take THAT!” She blew a gust of wind at Death Marshal and sent him flying over to the shattered beer stand. But instead of cracking his skull against the ground, he grabbed onto the beer hose and started drinking out of it like he was dying of thirst in a desert country.
After releasing a toxic burp that contributed to global warming, Death Marshal aimed the hose at JoJo and splashed her with a stream of beer. She was knocked over on her ass and scrambled to get back up, but couldn’t. The beer spray was too powerful for her, not unlike her wind magic. She even rolled backwards several feet and got some of it in her mouth. The beer stream couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t matter anymore. JoJo was soaked head to toe in alcohol. Her dress nearly fell off several times. And everyone cheered all around her.
Death Marshal stomped over to his drunken opponent, the fans parting like the Red Sea. JoJo struggled to stay on her feet despite nothing spraying her anymore. She burped, slurred her words, and actually made more sense than when she was picketing outside the gates. In that familiar southern accent, the mummy guardian said, “Don’t take this ass-whopping personally, son!” Two middle fingers later, he kicked her in the stomach and smashed her jaw over his shoulders as he dropped on his ass, or as the WWE would call it, a Stone Cold Stunner.
As fans cheered and roared all around him, Death Marshal held two middle fingers to the sky and rattled his head like the badass he was. Some of the crowd threw him cans of beer and he chugged them down within seconds, swimming in a sea of drunkenness. After another burp that rocked the arena, he said, “If you want to see me set this bitch on fire and send her straight to hell, give me a hell yeah!”
“HELL YEAH!” echoed the fans.
Death Marshal grabbed hold of JoJo’s ankle and dragged the dizzy and confused zealot back to the hole in the ground where he came from. The statue was busted. The magic was exposed. This venue probably wouldn’t make money again given the reckless nature of what happened today. But at least he could get all the sleep he wanted. As a final gesture of goodwill to their dark fantasy guardian, one of the fans slowly raised his hands in the air like another familiar WWE wrestler and threw them down on cue with flames bursting from the hole in the ground. In response, Death Marshal burped and threw the slime-covered T-shirt back up to the surface.
The magic was gone and soon everyone realized just how fucked up all of this was. Many fans and bouncers were still dead, vehicles were smashed every which way, stage and arena props were strewn all about. Not even the all mighty Death Marshal could bring them all back together. This sucked. This sucked badly. A heavy metal concert had turned into a day of trauma and death for those who just wanted a good time. Religious wars never did anybody any good. Two deities waged war and it was the public who paid the price. Marilyn Manson’s lyrics knew all about this phenomenon, oddly enough.
July 27, 2019
Bouncing Between Fantasy and Contemporary
***BOUNCING BETWEEN FANTASY AND CONTEMPORARY***
Whenever I’m trying to decide what’s next to write, I always ask myself what I’m not writing enough of or what I’m writing too much of. I’ll go through entire phases where I write just contemporary or just gory fantasy on-and-off. In 2018 alone, I’ve written three first draft novels that could be classified as drama. Silent Warrior is a high school drama that takes place in the present day and Incelbordination would also fall under the educational category.
Beautiful Monster? Well, that technically could be classified as a fantasy since it had elves, but there’s no magic system. Plus, the focus of the story was more about Windham’s PTSD rather than a mystical journey of sorts. I guess Beautiful Monster would be more of a drama than a fantasy in that respect, though one could debate that it falls under magical realism.
What about 2019? What have I written since January of this year? American Darkness 3 stories, yes, of course. I’ve rewritten Beautiful Monster from the ground up and I still consider it to be more drama than fantasy. Emilio & Marigold could technically be a fantasy by virtue of the lead villain being a giant who lives in the clouds. But in reality, that was more dramatic than fantastic as well since I’ve basically turned the story into one big debate over soft vs. hard parenting.
Commonsense would dictate that the genre of a story shouldn’t matter to me as long as the story itself is a compelling and entertaining read. Maybe I have done pretty well for myself with these dramas I’ve written over the last year and a half. But here’s where it starts to get tricky. Because I’ve been away from the fantasy genre for so long, I’ve found myself…I don’t want to say losing interest, because that will always be my bread and butter. It’s just that I haven’t had enough fantasy material in my diet, that’s all. When a muscle in your body doesn’t get enough exercise, it atrophies. Same thing goes for interest in the fantasy genre.
Another reason for me wanting to get back into the fantasy genre seems petty on the surface until you consider I’ve been a trusting fan of this celebrity for over a decade prior to his live TV rant. Of course, I’m talking about Bill Maher. I recently gave up watching his shows. I don’t even watch his New Rules segments on You Tube anymore. My loss of love for him has been a long time coming, with his many prejudiced statements about millennials, transsexuals, Middle Easterners, feminists, fat people, and other groups of people being prominent reasons why.
But then he threw a huge hissyfit about people who enjoy Stan Lee’s work, labeling them as “immature” and “idiotic”. Superheroes, fantasy creatures, and sci-fi adventures are my livelihood and Bill Maher just shit all over it because he’s a crabby old Baby Boomer. Getting back into the fantasy genre just to piss him off? Good enough reason for me! Goodbye, Bill Maher. You used to be cool, now you’re just a shitty old man. I’m a geeky millennial and I’m proud of it!
So…what kinds of things could I start writing again now that I’m awaiting the right opportunity to have Beautiful Monster critiqued? Well, I don’t want to work on a full-blown novel right away, because I’ll have my hands full with editing the shit out of this new version of Beautiful Monster. Plus, I’m not quite done getting Emilio & Marigold into tiptop shape. What about short stories? Poison Tongue Tales 3? Sure, I can do that! In fact, here’s a synopsis for what will be my contest entry for the WSS this week. It’s called “3:16” and it’s for a “Black Widow” prompt.
CHARACTERS:
1. Death Marshal, Mummy Hammer Fighter
2. JoJo Tornado, Human Aeromancer
3. Marilyn Manson and His Band
4. Audience and Bouncers
PROMPT CONFORMITY: The venue is called The Black Widow Amphitheater and it has a dark fantasy gimmick, complete with bouncers in hooded robes and Halloween lighting.
SYNOPSIS: A Marilyn Manson concert is taking place at an outdoor festival, which prompts conservative wizard JoJo to try and knock the electricity out with her wind magic. Her reckless spell casting causes her to tip over a stage prop onto the statue grave of an ancient creature known as Death Marshal, thus waking the angry beast from his sleep. Because Death Marshal is a mummy, he inherits knowledge and wisdom on the fly. He picks up a discarded Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and takes on the Bionic Redneck persona as he “stomps a mud hole” into JoJo and “walks it dry”.
It’d be worth it just to watch Bill Maher shit his pants. Then again, he does that enough already, which is why he probably wears Depends underneath his Men’s Warehouse suit every time he goes on TV. Is “3:16” the most philosophically powered story I’ve ever written? Will it make you question life? No! It’s just for fucking fun! Enjoy yourselves! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! By the way, my sign-off phrase is what the narrator says in the closing credits for Tales From the Dark Side, another TV show that is likely to trigger Bill Maher. Man, I’m really letting him have it tonight! Goddamn, that feels good!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I have seen the mystics play there once or twice, but I knew they had a reason. Enchantment plays its cards all right. Hand in hand with the workings of the season. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Two and two go so close together whether there is hope that is torn apart. In the words of all that’s singing. Hand in hand, the beginning is at the start. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Who sings of all of love’s eternity? Whose shines so bright in all the songs of love’s unending spells? Only lightning strikes all that’s evil, teaching us to love for goodness sake. Hear the music of love eternal teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Sweet songs of youth. The wise. The meeting of all wisdom. To believe in the good in man.”
-Tangerine Dream singing “Loved By the Sun”, another piece of art that will drive Bill Maher bat shit insane-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Remember a blog entry I wrote months ago about my Muse of the Year for 2019? I thought it was going to be Dita Von Teese. I thought she was going to bring my creativity to new heights. But then I just ran back into the proverbial arms of 2018’s MotY, Sarah-Jane Redmond, who played Lucy Butler on the 1990’s TV show Millennium. Hey, there’s another show that will make Bill Maher’s head explode! It’s technically in the thriller category, but it has occult elements in it, such as Lucy Butler being a demon from hell who only uses her human form to seduce men into doing awful things.
Whenever I’m trying to decide what’s next to write, I always ask myself what I’m not writing enough of or what I’m writing too much of. I’ll go through entire phases where I write just contemporary or just gory fantasy on-and-off. In 2018 alone, I’ve written three first draft novels that could be classified as drama. Silent Warrior is a high school drama that takes place in the present day and Incelbordination would also fall under the educational category.
Beautiful Monster? Well, that technically could be classified as a fantasy since it had elves, but there’s no magic system. Plus, the focus of the story was more about Windham’s PTSD rather than a mystical journey of sorts. I guess Beautiful Monster would be more of a drama than a fantasy in that respect, though one could debate that it falls under magical realism.
What about 2019? What have I written since January of this year? American Darkness 3 stories, yes, of course. I’ve rewritten Beautiful Monster from the ground up and I still consider it to be more drama than fantasy. Emilio & Marigold could technically be a fantasy by virtue of the lead villain being a giant who lives in the clouds. But in reality, that was more dramatic than fantastic as well since I’ve basically turned the story into one big debate over soft vs. hard parenting.
Commonsense would dictate that the genre of a story shouldn’t matter to me as long as the story itself is a compelling and entertaining read. Maybe I have done pretty well for myself with these dramas I’ve written over the last year and a half. But here’s where it starts to get tricky. Because I’ve been away from the fantasy genre for so long, I’ve found myself…I don’t want to say losing interest, because that will always be my bread and butter. It’s just that I haven’t had enough fantasy material in my diet, that’s all. When a muscle in your body doesn’t get enough exercise, it atrophies. Same thing goes for interest in the fantasy genre.
Another reason for me wanting to get back into the fantasy genre seems petty on the surface until you consider I’ve been a trusting fan of this celebrity for over a decade prior to his live TV rant. Of course, I’m talking about Bill Maher. I recently gave up watching his shows. I don’t even watch his New Rules segments on You Tube anymore. My loss of love for him has been a long time coming, with his many prejudiced statements about millennials, transsexuals, Middle Easterners, feminists, fat people, and other groups of people being prominent reasons why.
But then he threw a huge hissyfit about people who enjoy Stan Lee’s work, labeling them as “immature” and “idiotic”. Superheroes, fantasy creatures, and sci-fi adventures are my livelihood and Bill Maher just shit all over it because he’s a crabby old Baby Boomer. Getting back into the fantasy genre just to piss him off? Good enough reason for me! Goodbye, Bill Maher. You used to be cool, now you’re just a shitty old man. I’m a geeky millennial and I’m proud of it!
So…what kinds of things could I start writing again now that I’m awaiting the right opportunity to have Beautiful Monster critiqued? Well, I don’t want to work on a full-blown novel right away, because I’ll have my hands full with editing the shit out of this new version of Beautiful Monster. Plus, I’m not quite done getting Emilio & Marigold into tiptop shape. What about short stories? Poison Tongue Tales 3? Sure, I can do that! In fact, here’s a synopsis for what will be my contest entry for the WSS this week. It’s called “3:16” and it’s for a “Black Widow” prompt.
CHARACTERS:
1. Death Marshal, Mummy Hammer Fighter
2. JoJo Tornado, Human Aeromancer
3. Marilyn Manson and His Band
4. Audience and Bouncers
PROMPT CONFORMITY: The venue is called The Black Widow Amphitheater and it has a dark fantasy gimmick, complete with bouncers in hooded robes and Halloween lighting.
SYNOPSIS: A Marilyn Manson concert is taking place at an outdoor festival, which prompts conservative wizard JoJo to try and knock the electricity out with her wind magic. Her reckless spell casting causes her to tip over a stage prop onto the statue grave of an ancient creature known as Death Marshal, thus waking the angry beast from his sleep. Because Death Marshal is a mummy, he inherits knowledge and wisdom on the fly. He picks up a discarded Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and takes on the Bionic Redneck persona as he “stomps a mud hole” into JoJo and “walks it dry”.
It’d be worth it just to watch Bill Maher shit his pants. Then again, he does that enough already, which is why he probably wears Depends underneath his Men’s Warehouse suit every time he goes on TV. Is “3:16” the most philosophically powered story I’ve ever written? Will it make you question life? No! It’s just for fucking fun! Enjoy yourselves! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! By the way, my sign-off phrase is what the narrator says in the closing credits for Tales From the Dark Side, another TV show that is likely to trigger Bill Maher. Man, I’m really letting him have it tonight! Goddamn, that feels good!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I have seen the mystics play there once or twice, but I knew they had a reason. Enchantment plays its cards all right. Hand in hand with the workings of the season. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Two and two go so close together whether there is hope that is torn apart. In the words of all that’s singing. Hand in hand, the beginning is at the start. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Who sings of all of love’s eternity? Whose shines so bright in all the songs of love’s unending spells? Only lightning strikes all that’s evil, teaching us to love for goodness sake. Hear the music of love eternal teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Sweet songs of youth. The wise. The meeting of all wisdom. To believe in the good in man.”
-Tangerine Dream singing “Loved By the Sun”, another piece of art that will drive Bill Maher bat shit insane-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Remember a blog entry I wrote months ago about my Muse of the Year for 2019? I thought it was going to be Dita Von Teese. I thought she was going to bring my creativity to new heights. But then I just ran back into the proverbial arms of 2018’s MotY, Sarah-Jane Redmond, who played Lucy Butler on the 1990’s TV show Millennium. Hey, there’s another show that will make Bill Maher’s head explode! It’s technically in the thriller category, but it has occult elements in it, such as Lucy Butler being a demon from hell who only uses her human form to seduce men into doing awful things.
July 26, 2019
Toll Free Call
VERSE 1
It’s a toll free call in a free country
Please give us all of your hush money
Don’t lawyer up or try anything funny
Or we’ll be Elmer Fudd to your Bugs Bunny
VERSE 2
It’s a toll free call from Synchrony Bank
“Of course!” said a Young Turk named Cenk
Preying on the poor like it’s some kind of war
It’s really getting old, let’s go ahead and snore
VERSE 3
It’s a toll free call from Washington State
The kind that will stimulate your rage and hate
Don’t you wish you could reach through the phone
And snap the robo caller’s pencil neck bone?
VERSE 4
It’s a toll free call from the Russian president
Or a North Korean dictator that hell has sent
Or a Saudi Arabian prince who wants to convince
You to vote against your wishes in words not minced
VERSE 5
Rip the goddamn cable right out of the wall
And never ever get another toll free call
Tell your phone company they can suck a big one
If they want to go to war, then have some bloody fun
It’s a toll free call in a free country
Please give us all of your hush money
Don’t lawyer up or try anything funny
Or we’ll be Elmer Fudd to your Bugs Bunny
VERSE 2
It’s a toll free call from Synchrony Bank
“Of course!” said a Young Turk named Cenk
Preying on the poor like it’s some kind of war
It’s really getting old, let’s go ahead and snore
VERSE 3
It’s a toll free call from Washington State
The kind that will stimulate your rage and hate
Don’t you wish you could reach through the phone
And snap the robo caller’s pencil neck bone?
VERSE 4
It’s a toll free call from the Russian president
Or a North Korean dictator that hell has sent
Or a Saudi Arabian prince who wants to convince
You to vote against your wishes in words not minced
VERSE 5
Rip the goddamn cable right out of the wall
And never ever get another toll free call
Tell your phone company they can suck a big one
If they want to go to war, then have some bloody fun
July 23, 2019
The Big Kids
VERSE 1
Face Book liars who never retire
Instagram trolls looking for holes
Twitter tough guys in disguise
Big kids, big dicks, Heisman prize
Pushing skinny geeks to the ground
Reading their poetry in public out loud
Trolling them online all the damn time
Big trucks, big nuts, excused from crime
CHROUS 1
You are!
The big kids!
The hot shits!
The jock twins!
VERSE 2
All you motherfuckers look exactly the same
With your internet perfection and easy fame
Violent pranks played on those of lower rank
Suicidal wet dreams for the victims it seems
Black belts, letter jackets, everything you want
Money, cheerleaders, whatever you can rob
Counting down the days until summer vacation
We take out our aggression on the Playstation
EXTENDED CHROUS 1
You are!
The big kids!
The hot shits!
The jock twins!
You are!
The jarheads!
The well-fed!
The hand-led!
VERSE 3
Gamer Gate sexism turned up to eleven
Guaranteed your own cloud in the heavens
Guaranteed the keys to your own kingdom
Glass ceiling fantasy for those beneath it
Guaranteed a job for life on the cop squad
Even when we prove you’re just a fraud
Even when the corpses continue to mount
Even when this country starts to go south
EXTENDED CHROUS 2
You are!
The big kids!
The hot shits!
The jock twins!
You are!
The rich pricks!
The big dicks!
The groin kicks!
VERSE 4
Now you’re all alone with a fucking concussion
Everything you read might as well be in Russian
You burned all the bridges, betrayed your bitches
Nobody is left to help you remove your stitches
Football, trucks, money, and booze
Girls, weapons, so sure you’ll never lose
Shallow values and deep graves
You had it all, yet continued to crave
CHORUS 2
You are!
A dead soul!
An asshole!
Left in the cold!
FINAL LINES
The big kids! X4
Face Book liars who never retire
Instagram trolls looking for holes
Twitter tough guys in disguise
Big kids, big dicks, Heisman prize
Pushing skinny geeks to the ground
Reading their poetry in public out loud
Trolling them online all the damn time
Big trucks, big nuts, excused from crime
CHROUS 1
You are!
The big kids!
The hot shits!
The jock twins!
VERSE 2
All you motherfuckers look exactly the same
With your internet perfection and easy fame
Violent pranks played on those of lower rank
Suicidal wet dreams for the victims it seems
Black belts, letter jackets, everything you want
Money, cheerleaders, whatever you can rob
Counting down the days until summer vacation
We take out our aggression on the Playstation
EXTENDED CHROUS 1
You are!
The big kids!
The hot shits!
The jock twins!
You are!
The jarheads!
The well-fed!
The hand-led!
VERSE 3
Gamer Gate sexism turned up to eleven
Guaranteed your own cloud in the heavens
Guaranteed the keys to your own kingdom
Glass ceiling fantasy for those beneath it
Guaranteed a job for life on the cop squad
Even when we prove you’re just a fraud
Even when the corpses continue to mount
Even when this country starts to go south
EXTENDED CHROUS 2
You are!
The big kids!
The hot shits!
The jock twins!
You are!
The rich pricks!
The big dicks!
The groin kicks!
VERSE 4
Now you’re all alone with a fucking concussion
Everything you read might as well be in Russian
You burned all the bridges, betrayed your bitches
Nobody is left to help you remove your stitches
Football, trucks, money, and booze
Girls, weapons, so sure you’ll never lose
Shallow values and deep graves
You had it all, yet continued to crave
CHORUS 2
You are!
A dead soul!
An asshole!
Left in the cold!
FINAL LINES
The big kids! X4
July 21, 2019
El Perfecto
VERSE 1
Getting it right on the very first try
Is setting the bar way too fucking high
Black widow parents feeding kids venom
How to score A’s, how to get into heaven
El Perfecto is an out of reach nickname
Anything below that is all a big shame
No time to play, learn how to pray
That your belt bruises will go away
CHORUS
El Perfecto! X4
VERSE 2
Landing a career as a big shot executive
A hot shit CEO who nobody messes with
Is a privilege for those with money and power
A right for those with their name on a tower
Landing a career jockeying a cash register
Is more than just an old political metaphor
It’s a way of life for those who cannot buy
Their way into a private jet flying in the sky
CHORUS
El Perfecto! X4
BRIDGE
Stressed out! You don’t know what to do
So a gun to your skull is what you choose
Stressed out! You don’t know who to trust
In a world where nobody really gives a fuck
Stressed out! You don’t know how to relax
There are so many knives in so many backs
Stressed out! The oligarchy rules your life
They don’t know what it’s like to want to die
VERSE 3
You swear you’ll take a day off next Monday
But your broken down body has become mundane
You swear you’ll see a doctor next Tuesday
But the prices were jacked up twice today
You swear you’ll get married next Wednesday
But you couldn’t satisfy her on your best day
You swear you’ll end the cycle soon enough
But that hollow sunken belly is yours to stuff
CHORUS
El Perfecto! X4
Getting it right on the very first try
Is setting the bar way too fucking high
Black widow parents feeding kids venom
How to score A’s, how to get into heaven
El Perfecto is an out of reach nickname
Anything below that is all a big shame
No time to play, learn how to pray
That your belt bruises will go away
CHORUS
El Perfecto! X4
VERSE 2
Landing a career as a big shot executive
A hot shit CEO who nobody messes with
Is a privilege for those with money and power
A right for those with their name on a tower
Landing a career jockeying a cash register
Is more than just an old political metaphor
It’s a way of life for those who cannot buy
Their way into a private jet flying in the sky
CHORUS
El Perfecto! X4
BRIDGE
Stressed out! You don’t know what to do
So a gun to your skull is what you choose
Stressed out! You don’t know who to trust
In a world where nobody really gives a fuck
Stressed out! You don’t know how to relax
There are so many knives in so many backs
Stressed out! The oligarchy rules your life
They don’t know what it’s like to want to die
VERSE 3
You swear you’ll take a day off next Monday
But your broken down body has become mundane
You swear you’ll see a doctor next Tuesday
But the prices were jacked up twice today
You swear you’ll get married next Wednesday
But you couldn’t satisfy her on your best day
You swear you’ll end the cycle soon enough
But that hollow sunken belly is yours to stuff
CHORUS
El Perfecto! X4
July 15, 2019
The Human Hotdog
BEEP! “Principal Simon? Spencer Pyle is here to see you. It’s not good.”
Quinn Simon sighed. “Send him up.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his desk drawer and took a few quick sips before putting it back where it belonged. He held the bridge of his nose for what seemed like forever. “What could he possibly want now?” he asked to nobody in particular. This would have been the perfect opportunity to venture into the dreamscape and bypass this unnecessary meeting with the anti-LGBT blogger. Or better yet, it would be a good time to put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger. Different dreamscape, same avoidance of responsibilities.
There was a loud knock at his door and before Quinn had the chance to allow him in, Spencer Pyle burst into the room on his own. The activist’s creepy face quivered with anger. His horseshoe hair seemed to be reverberating with every tremble. And yet, Principal Simon couldn’t be upset anymore. In fact, he smiled when he saw the reason for Spencer’s silent rage: he was covered head to toe in mustard and ketchup, like a human hotdog.
As Quinn struggled to keep his laughter in, Spencer crossed his arms and said, “I’m glad you think this is hilarious, Principal, and I use that term loosely. If this had happened to any one of your PC millennial students, you’d file an anti-bullying report. But since it’s someone who doesn’t agree one hundred percent with your own political views, then I guess it’s pure comedy.”
“I don’t condone violence or harassment of any sort, don’t get me wrong,” said Quinn as he waved his hand defensively. “But if you really want me to punish harassment, I should start by punishing you.”
Spencer slammed his palm on the desk and yelled, “I’ve been punished enough already! You see this suit? It’s going to cost a fucking fortune to get it cleaned! I’m not wearing a Men’s Warehouse piece of shit like you are! I actually pay for the things that I own! I live like a capitalist every day!”
“Fine, then go live like a capitalist at the dry cleaners and hold up your homophobic signs there.”
Sticking a finger in Quinn’s face, Spencer raged, “Colleges are supposed to be places of free speech. They’re supposed to be places where big ideas can thrive. And now your sensitive snowflake students think it’s okay to squirt condiments all over people they have minor disagreements with! You’re doing a great disservice to this generation! You’re turning them into entitled brats!”
Maintaining calmness under fire, Quinn folded his hands on his desk and said, “You have the right to say whatever you want, I agree. Your first amendment rights guarantee you that. However, the first amendment protects you from the LEGAL consequences of free speech, not the social ones. You have the right to speak your mind, but you don’t have the right to be popular. If you had to like everyone’s point of view, that would defeat the purpose of first amendment rights to begin with. You’re not the only one who has free speech rights, Mr. Pyle.”
As soon as Spencer grabbed Quinn’s suit jacket, that was when the principal’s grace under fire gave way to minor nervousness. “Squirting hotdog sauces on people is not considered free speech, you idiot. It’s assault. I’m pressing charges against every single one of those students and you’re going to help me identify them!”
“Assault?” Quinn chuckled. “I don’t see a scratch on you. I’m sorry, but ketchup doesn’t count as real blood.”
“It’s still assault, you jackass! I’m taking them all down! And I’ll take you down with them! You see, I’ve got sources on the inside who’ve told me some interesting things about you. They’re telling me that you purposefully distributed those ketchup and mustard bottles just for this occasion.”
“Really? Who are your sources?”
“I don’t have to tell you my sources. I’m a journalist.”
Quinn batted Spencer’s hand away. “Two things. One, you’re not a real journalist. You’re a blogger with a god complex. There’s a difference. And two, citing sources is something we ask of our students all the time when they write expository essays. When they make certain points, the teachers want to be able to fact check them. If the teachers have nothing to fact check, then the students will get F’s. I’m merely fact checking you, Mr. Pyle, that’s all. So who are your sources?”
Instead of giving a definitive answer, Spencer gave Principal Simon a mustard-drenched middle finger.
“I understand,” said Quinn. “So your sources could literally be anybody as far as I know. They could be other students. They could be faculty. They could be secretaries. Or they could be completely summoned from thin air. Your sources could be Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan for all I know. Please say your sources aren’t Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan.”
With clenched teeth, Spencer said, “They’re not Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan. They’re real people.”
“I’m sure they are,” said Quinn sarcastically. “But until you tell me who they are so that I can fact check you, I’m just going to assume that you’re another crazy right-winger peddling conspiracy theories at random. I’ve heard them all and I’m sure I’ll hear more. Barack Obama was born in Kenya. 9/11 was an inside job. Windmills give you cancer. And Principal Quinn Simon is willing to sacrifice a good-paying job just so he can squirt condiments on some bush league blogger who can only win debates by raising his voice.”
“You do want to silence me, Principal. I know you do. That’s why you’re asking me to name my sources, so that you can suspend them or expel them. Wouldn’t want any free thinkers on your campus. They’re not good for your agenda. Besides, if you know full well you didn’t do it, then why do you need to fact check yourself?”
“The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Pyle. You’re the one crazy enough to peddle these conspiracy theories. You’re the one who believes them to your core. If you can’t provide me with proof, then I suggest you leave my office before I call campus security.”
Spencer swatted Quinn’s phone off the desk, instilling even more wide-eyed, shiver-inducing fear in the normally stalwart principal.
Holding his hands up and quivering through his speech, Quinn said, “Take it easy, Mr. Pyle. You said yourself you don’t condone assault. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to contradict yourself, do you?”
“You’ve contradicted yourself enough times already, Principal Simon,” growled Spencer. “You don’t give a damn about free speech. You don’t give a damn about my wellbeing or my rights. You don’t give a damn about this country. So what if I don’t like gay people? Does that make me an evil person? Not in the least. I’m doing God’s work. You and your students are on a one-way ticket straight to hell. But hey, you can at least take your condiments with you and roast your weenies over all those open flames. Roasting hotdogs without a barbecue. That sounds like a party to me.”
Quinn was on the verge of shitting his pants upon gazing deeper into Spencer’s psychotic zealot eyes. They were wide. They were bloodshot. They stared daggers into Quinn’s so-called non-existent soul. “You know what?” he stammered. “Here, have something to drink.” With his hands occupied in the drawer, he opened the wine and mixed something in the liquid before pulling out the bottle.
Spencer folded his arms and smiled at his own intimidation tactics. “I had no idea you were allowed to drink on campus, Principal Simon. And here I thought that shit was banned after Brock Turner got his twenty minutes of action.”
“Please, just take a drink and calm down. Your voice is probably dry after all that screaming.”
Spencer yanked the bottle out of Quinn’s hand and chugged half of it before slamming it on the desk. “Oh, that’s some good tasting shit! Nice sparkling red wine. A little too bitter for my tastes, but that’s pretty much what you can expect from all alcoholic beverages.” The sounds of Spencer’s stomach grumbling echoed throughout the room. “Oh dear god…where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the left.”
As soon as Spencer booked it towards the bathroom, one of Principal Simon’s secretaries entered with concern on her face, especially after seeing the multi-lined phone laying on the floor. There were also ketchup and mustard stains on Quinn’s own suit jacket, in the shape of someone’s hand, no less. “Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.
“Call the police, Betty. Spencer Pyle’s going berserk. Do it on your smart phone. We need to get everyone out of here before he’s done using the bathroom.”
Quinn’s plan worked like a charm. The most anal activist on the planet was unplugged with Imodium AD. Quinn could be pretty anal too sometimes, but not enough to need the entire packet of pills.
Quinn Simon sighed. “Send him up.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his desk drawer and took a few quick sips before putting it back where it belonged. He held the bridge of his nose for what seemed like forever. “What could he possibly want now?” he asked to nobody in particular. This would have been the perfect opportunity to venture into the dreamscape and bypass this unnecessary meeting with the anti-LGBT blogger. Or better yet, it would be a good time to put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger. Different dreamscape, same avoidance of responsibilities.
There was a loud knock at his door and before Quinn had the chance to allow him in, Spencer Pyle burst into the room on his own. The activist’s creepy face quivered with anger. His horseshoe hair seemed to be reverberating with every tremble. And yet, Principal Simon couldn’t be upset anymore. In fact, he smiled when he saw the reason for Spencer’s silent rage: he was covered head to toe in mustard and ketchup, like a human hotdog.
As Quinn struggled to keep his laughter in, Spencer crossed his arms and said, “I’m glad you think this is hilarious, Principal, and I use that term loosely. If this had happened to any one of your PC millennial students, you’d file an anti-bullying report. But since it’s someone who doesn’t agree one hundred percent with your own political views, then I guess it’s pure comedy.”
“I don’t condone violence or harassment of any sort, don’t get me wrong,” said Quinn as he waved his hand defensively. “But if you really want me to punish harassment, I should start by punishing you.”
Spencer slammed his palm on the desk and yelled, “I’ve been punished enough already! You see this suit? It’s going to cost a fucking fortune to get it cleaned! I’m not wearing a Men’s Warehouse piece of shit like you are! I actually pay for the things that I own! I live like a capitalist every day!”
“Fine, then go live like a capitalist at the dry cleaners and hold up your homophobic signs there.”
Sticking a finger in Quinn’s face, Spencer raged, “Colleges are supposed to be places of free speech. They’re supposed to be places where big ideas can thrive. And now your sensitive snowflake students think it’s okay to squirt condiments all over people they have minor disagreements with! You’re doing a great disservice to this generation! You’re turning them into entitled brats!”
Maintaining calmness under fire, Quinn folded his hands on his desk and said, “You have the right to say whatever you want, I agree. Your first amendment rights guarantee you that. However, the first amendment protects you from the LEGAL consequences of free speech, not the social ones. You have the right to speak your mind, but you don’t have the right to be popular. If you had to like everyone’s point of view, that would defeat the purpose of first amendment rights to begin with. You’re not the only one who has free speech rights, Mr. Pyle.”
As soon as Spencer grabbed Quinn’s suit jacket, that was when the principal’s grace under fire gave way to minor nervousness. “Squirting hotdog sauces on people is not considered free speech, you idiot. It’s assault. I’m pressing charges against every single one of those students and you’re going to help me identify them!”
“Assault?” Quinn chuckled. “I don’t see a scratch on you. I’m sorry, but ketchup doesn’t count as real blood.”
“It’s still assault, you jackass! I’m taking them all down! And I’ll take you down with them! You see, I’ve got sources on the inside who’ve told me some interesting things about you. They’re telling me that you purposefully distributed those ketchup and mustard bottles just for this occasion.”
“Really? Who are your sources?”
“I don’t have to tell you my sources. I’m a journalist.”
Quinn batted Spencer’s hand away. “Two things. One, you’re not a real journalist. You’re a blogger with a god complex. There’s a difference. And two, citing sources is something we ask of our students all the time when they write expository essays. When they make certain points, the teachers want to be able to fact check them. If the teachers have nothing to fact check, then the students will get F’s. I’m merely fact checking you, Mr. Pyle, that’s all. So who are your sources?”
Instead of giving a definitive answer, Spencer gave Principal Simon a mustard-drenched middle finger.
“I understand,” said Quinn. “So your sources could literally be anybody as far as I know. They could be other students. They could be faculty. They could be secretaries. Or they could be completely summoned from thin air. Your sources could be Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan for all I know. Please say your sources aren’t Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan.”
With clenched teeth, Spencer said, “They’re not Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan. They’re real people.”
“I’m sure they are,” said Quinn sarcastically. “But until you tell me who they are so that I can fact check you, I’m just going to assume that you’re another crazy right-winger peddling conspiracy theories at random. I’ve heard them all and I’m sure I’ll hear more. Barack Obama was born in Kenya. 9/11 was an inside job. Windmills give you cancer. And Principal Quinn Simon is willing to sacrifice a good-paying job just so he can squirt condiments on some bush league blogger who can only win debates by raising his voice.”
“You do want to silence me, Principal. I know you do. That’s why you’re asking me to name my sources, so that you can suspend them or expel them. Wouldn’t want any free thinkers on your campus. They’re not good for your agenda. Besides, if you know full well you didn’t do it, then why do you need to fact check yourself?”
“The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Pyle. You’re the one crazy enough to peddle these conspiracy theories. You’re the one who believes them to your core. If you can’t provide me with proof, then I suggest you leave my office before I call campus security.”
Spencer swatted Quinn’s phone off the desk, instilling even more wide-eyed, shiver-inducing fear in the normally stalwart principal.
Holding his hands up and quivering through his speech, Quinn said, “Take it easy, Mr. Pyle. You said yourself you don’t condone assault. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to contradict yourself, do you?”
“You’ve contradicted yourself enough times already, Principal Simon,” growled Spencer. “You don’t give a damn about free speech. You don’t give a damn about my wellbeing or my rights. You don’t give a damn about this country. So what if I don’t like gay people? Does that make me an evil person? Not in the least. I’m doing God’s work. You and your students are on a one-way ticket straight to hell. But hey, you can at least take your condiments with you and roast your weenies over all those open flames. Roasting hotdogs without a barbecue. That sounds like a party to me.”
Quinn was on the verge of shitting his pants upon gazing deeper into Spencer’s psychotic zealot eyes. They were wide. They were bloodshot. They stared daggers into Quinn’s so-called non-existent soul. “You know what?” he stammered. “Here, have something to drink.” With his hands occupied in the drawer, he opened the wine and mixed something in the liquid before pulling out the bottle.
Spencer folded his arms and smiled at his own intimidation tactics. “I had no idea you were allowed to drink on campus, Principal Simon. And here I thought that shit was banned after Brock Turner got his twenty minutes of action.”
“Please, just take a drink and calm down. Your voice is probably dry after all that screaming.”
Spencer yanked the bottle out of Quinn’s hand and chugged half of it before slamming it on the desk. “Oh, that’s some good tasting shit! Nice sparkling red wine. A little too bitter for my tastes, but that’s pretty much what you can expect from all alcoholic beverages.” The sounds of Spencer’s stomach grumbling echoed throughout the room. “Oh dear god…where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the left.”
As soon as Spencer booked it towards the bathroom, one of Principal Simon’s secretaries entered with concern on her face, especially after seeing the multi-lined phone laying on the floor. There were also ketchup and mustard stains on Quinn’s own suit jacket, in the shape of someone’s hand, no less. “Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.
“Call the police, Betty. Spencer Pyle’s going berserk. Do it on your smart phone. We need to get everyone out of here before he’s done using the bathroom.”
Quinn’s plan worked like a charm. The most anal activist on the planet was unplugged with Imodium AD. Quinn could be pretty anal too sometimes, but not enough to need the entire packet of pills.
July 7, 2019
Hokey Tonk
VERSE 1
If you want to be a real American hero
You need to sign up for the Big Ass War
The number of terrorists alive will be zero
They’ll all explode like July the Fourth
VERSE 2
If you don’t have a Social Security number
It means you were born in the back of a truck
Working through sickness will quench your hunger
This is America and here we don’t give a fuck
VERSE 3
If you want to own a big fucking machinegun
You have to be whiter than the Ku Klux Klan
Just pull the trigger and have an ass-load of fun
Teach your son to shoot so he can be a big man
VERSE 4
If you think this song is anything but a joke
You’re less educated than the state of Alabama
Blind patriotism is nothing more than a hoax
Especially when the racist judge bangs his hammer
FINAL LINE
Yee-haw, bitches! Roll Tide!
Whatever the fuck that means….
If you want to be a real American hero
You need to sign up for the Big Ass War
The number of terrorists alive will be zero
They’ll all explode like July the Fourth
VERSE 2
If you don’t have a Social Security number
It means you were born in the back of a truck
Working through sickness will quench your hunger
This is America and here we don’t give a fuck
VERSE 3
If you want to own a big fucking machinegun
You have to be whiter than the Ku Klux Klan
Just pull the trigger and have an ass-load of fun
Teach your son to shoot so he can be a big man
VERSE 4
If you think this song is anything but a joke
You’re less educated than the state of Alabama
Blind patriotism is nothing more than a hoax
Especially when the racist judge bangs his hammer
FINAL LINE
Yee-haw, bitches! Roll Tide!
Whatever the fuck that means….
